


Lately

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:19:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His brother was driving him nuts in a number of ways--</p><p>originally posted 6-6-2007</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then...

Lately, things were getting hard—difficult!—to deal with. He wasn’t really sure what to think. Except maybe he was kind of sick or something.

His brother was driving him nuts on all kinds of levels, and he couldn’t even say anything—what the fuck could he say—Hey, stop making me think about following you into the bathroom and dropping to my knees in front of you. Stop looking like sex. Stop looking at me!

It was like living with one of those fucking eye paintings—the shit people said whenever they tried to point out about what great shit a painting was—look the eyes follow you around the room. So fucking what. His brother's eyes followed _him_ around and it wasn’t that terrific a thing. It was like being pinned…all the time.

He never said anything! He just looked! And worse—he was never sure where he was looking—at his face, or. Or his crotch.  
What if he wasn’t looking at all?  
What if…what if he was thinking the same thing….or what if he was yelling in his mind all the time to _stop looking at me?_

Fuck. Oh God….

“Dean?”

 _Oh shit—_ “What?”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine, go to sleep.” Oh God. Was he thinking that hard? His brother was trying to kill him. And now…pajamas. Pajamas were the issue. He remembered when Sam would leap out of the tub, squeaky clean and dripping wet, and they’d hustle him into his little flannel PJs, and throw his ass in bed, g’night and be done. Dad would slap him on the back and tell him good job, Dean, and he’d drift off to sleep, having done his duty by Sammy, and his dad….

Things changed. Sam got older, and he didn’t have to run a tub for him or wash behind his ears—just hand him the washcloth and growl, clean yer own butt and he’d giggle and dash for the bathroom, scrub and brush all by himself and—and then that became a punch to the head and a shove into the bathroom—get cleaned you stink. Getting cursed at from behind a locked door, and him giggling and watching Letterman or whatever…waiting for Dad to come back. Done his duty.

That had worked out perfectly for years. Perfect. And then Sammy had to screw it up.

First time he noticed… it was summer, in Pennsylvania. Hot and sticky as hell but the dump they were staying in, miracle of miracles, had a real pool. Small as shit and never cold from all the other bodies in it but wet. Sam was making lunch, still dripping from the pool, smelling like pool, and wearing the bottoms of his PJs even though it was early still.

Cold, Sam said, when asked why. He was smearing generic peanut butter over bread, the little plastic knife flipping and bending in his hand, cursing under his breath about dollar store plastic ware and….

Sam’s back was long, and brown from the sun and his shoulder blades slid under his skin like wings trying to break free…Dean felt like a pervert when he realized he was staring. No, he felt like a pervert when he realized he was staring and he was stiff. A little. Not a lot.

Yes, he was. A _lot._

Sam looked at him weird that night before he went to bed. The bigger bed. The one Sam had to share with Dad. ‘Cause Dean was oldest and got his own bed. Yeah. He was the man.

He knew damn well why he got the single. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, without elbowing his brother. He was pathetically grateful his dad didn’t make a big deal over it. He didn’t think he could take a lecture on puberty and shit. That’s what the internet was for.

It was weird how well he remembered that particular motel room….

It was long and narrow and the walls were cinderblock and painted pea soup green. And the bathroom door stuck. There was a full bed with a brown corduroy spread covering it against the wall facing the door, and nightstand and a twin bed, with a brown and green striped spread on it. The carpet was green. The curtains were green. There was a tiny fridge and a table with a chair next to it. Maybe it was supposed to be a desk.

It was seriously ugly and seriously depressing and he spent any rare blessed time he was alone in the bathroom, jerking off. And fuck, for a damn long time the smell of peanut butter and chlorine made him horny as fuck. One time he'd scooped up peanut butter on his finger and sucked it clean while he jerked off. That time, his knees gave out when he came.

That summer, Sammy wore those pajama bottoms out.

The next motel, he had to share a bed with Sam.

 _That_ motel--was on the edge of Hades. All day long, he’d sweat. All night long, he’d burn in hell.

Sam would lay next to him, rolled away and still as death, heat pouring off him, and the smell of his sweat forcing itself in his nose and. And it was too hot for pajamas Sam said, and wore boxers to bed--and Dean burned.

Sam was tall for his age; he shot up that particular summer, got really tall. And so thin, it hurt to look at.

Dean looked a lot that summer, oh god, he looked an awful lot.

Come fall, Dad had an attack of parenting and somewhere in Jersey, he found a little house to rent, and a school to enroll Sam in and he was pretty glad not to move for a while. He put a poster on the wall on his side of the room. They went to Wal-Mart and bought sheets, blankets…house stuff. Clothes.

He slipped a package of pajamas into the cart. For Sam.

The house was a shotgun with faded linoleum in all the rooms…he remembered it felt gritty underfoot, and how cold it was in the morning. The place smelled like wet newspaper all the time…for a little bit of time, it was home.

There was a back yard, set on the edge of northing and Dad taught him and Sam how to shoot. He taught them basic moves in self-defense but mostly taught them how to protect themselves against the things a gun wouldn’t stop. Sam figured being a freshman in a strange town was pretty much the same as tackling a demon.

Dean had to explain to Sam the plastic knives were a no-go for school.

“Don’t worry about it, Sammy. You won’t stick out because you’re new.” Sam looked hopeful until he said, “You’ll stick out because you’re freakishly tall and ugly.”

They grappled around on the mostly sand of the backyard of that little gray house. Rolled around and around and landed in a pile of arms and legs and. He was hard enough to throb and he was tight against Sam’s back. Butt. He could feel Sam’s heart pounding, under his locked wrists he felt his ribs heaving, and he pried his hands apart and let Sam stand up. Sam kicked him and walked into the house.

…it wasn’t an unfriendly kick.

When he came in the house Sam was making lunch, he made him a peanut butter sandwich too, without a word slid the plate across the table at him. Had even made him a glass of Boost which he managed to drink the shit without gagging and choked down the sandwich without getting hard. Harder.

They sort of didn’t wrestle again…like, wrestled but not…like that.

He dreamed it though. All night long, dreamed of Sam moving against him, his cock pressed hard against his back, and rubbing, and rubbing…sometimes he’d wake up and hear an echo of a groan. He’d be pulsing in his shorts and for a moment feel—great until the guilt kicked his ass.  
Pervert.  


* * * * * * 

  
Boxers. Low, hanging right at the edge of falling off.

Boxers…soft, really soft he knew, his were worn soft too. Washed over and over until the cotton was almost translucent and a little sweat made them cling like a second skin and you could see everything, Sam’s…everything. Hair. Skin. Freckles. Cock.

 _Shit._

The beginning of fall had been hot still, so they sat in the back yard in their shorts and threw darts at a target nailed on a tree. Toss, toss…Sam’s skin rolled over muscle smooth as water over river rocks. Surprising. Hard muscle. He checked his own arms—yeah. Not bad and when he looked up, he was looking right into Sam’s eyes and they blushed. Sam tossed a dart at him.  
“Fucker!”  
“Pay attention.”

“Funny, mother fucker.”

He spent the afternoon watching Sam read, counting the freckles on his back, making patterns out of them…getting hard.

Leaving to jerk off in the bathroom. Fucker.

* * * * * * 

  
…maybe Sam wanted it too. Maybe he was just waiting for him to say something. Maybe Sam wanted him to make the first move, take it out of his hands. Why won’t Sam make the first move, take it out of his hands….

* * * * * * 

  
“Too hot, pussface.” The answer.

The question? Why are you not wearing boxers tonight? Too hot? Hot. God he was in hell. New Jersey was hell. 'Sticky hot clinging to the sheets and holding yourself stiller than dead' hell and Sam is naked. Nude.

“Dean, can you—would you look at this? Is it normal?”

 _Please, god, don’t be looking at your cock._ No one ever paid attention to Dean's prayers.

“Look—looks like a pimple to me, scuzz. Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you _sure?”_

“What, you want me to look closer—you do.” _Fuck me._ He reached out a hand; face screwed up in a grimace. _You can do this. Easy. Just. Don’t think…_  
“Okay…” and lifted…lifted Sam's cock to look. The fucker had to know. He must know, Sam was playing—pushing him, had to be—

It was alive in his hand. Hot and velvety, soft and that kind of made him want to touch harder, stroke…he would not look at his face. He would not listen to Sam breathe… “Really Sam, normal.”

“Yeah?” He sounded a little winded.

“Yeah.” Maybe Sam sounded winded—but _he_ sounded like someone’d punched him in the gut. Some body *should*. His fingers burned.

His gut burned replaying the twitch he’d felt when he slid his fingers off Sam's cock, He didn't—just barely didn't—give it a little pat and he deserved something for that, damn it. He was a fucking SAINT. He was a few inches away from Sam's cock in his face. A few more inches and he could have licked it. Sam would have felt his breath on the head of his cock, and wasn’t it, maybe, a little, wet?

HELL.

Sick, sick bastard he was. Sam had no more idea what he was doing to him than a puppy chewing on your shoes…he was innocent. Clueless, ignorant of what he was doing, how he was feeding Dean's sick brain.

And he was going to bed naked all the time now. Naked, _naked._ He hated Sammy, hated him so much he could taste it. Hated him…realized he had own his fingers shoved in his mouth and hated Sam some more.

Sam was trying to kill him, no doubt. Nude and brown still…the sun always took a long time leaving Sam. He was the color of sun on bronze, the color of life, the color of warm. The color he saw in his dreams, the ones in which he’d climb into Sam’s bed naked, and put his arms around him and rub against him, and he didn’t know how to do what he wanted exactly, but he wanted to learn and do it to Sam.

* * * * * * 

  
When Dad started to let him have the car from time to time, it was a relief to leave for a bit. Didn’t need to go far. The parking lot at the strip mall had everything he needed. Sometimes a joint, a beer, girls in the back seat.

Some girls would blow him and he made them do it in the car. He liked sitting with his legs far apart, and watching them bend over his cock. He liked it wet and sloppy. He liked noise. He liked repaying them, he liked eating them out. He liked fucking them, he liked doing it from behind, he liked their backs pressed into his chest, hard, flat.…

Once a girl let him fuck her in the ass and he thought he was going to die. He was all over her shaking, moaning, making too much noise, stuttering and plunging in and out and praying and he might have yelled out Sam’s name.

More than once.

Maybe screamed it about twenty times when his eyes rolled back and sparklers exploded in his head and his dick and his ass and—it was wild and he couldn’t get her out of the car fast enough. All he wanted was a shower and bed and a pillow over his head. His face. His nose. Fuck a pillow—a plastic bag….

And of course, Sam was awake and wanting to talk when he fell in the door but all he could see was his cock in Sam's ass and he was a bastard to him but at least Sam shut up. He felt like shit but…he locked himself in the bathroom and showered and thought, ‘what the hell am I going to do?’

Jerk off. Sure. With one finger touching himself, reaching behind him and touching…because he had to know, what did it feel like?

Pretty damn good, actually. The noisy kind of good… he crammed a hand in his mouth when he came to keep the noise down. Sure enough, Sammy was still awake when he came back out. He was naked on top of the covers and beautiful and staring at him with some kind of hate in his eyes. Judging by the look, whatever he’d said to the boy had been harsh…“What?”

“Nothing.” Sam jumped off the bed with a snarl— _don’t look_ \--stomped off to the bathroom. _don’t look_

Okay…Sam shut the door and as soon as it was closed, he shoved his hand in his pants. Just a quick squeeze, one time. Twice, a squeeze or two, and then stop.

“Dean.”

Whipped his hand out of his pants fast enough to hurt. “What?”

“Come here.”

“Why?” Why…okay, this was a ‘why come here’, and a ‘why am I getting up again’ and a ‘why do I do pretty much whatever the boy wants’ why.

“Can you come here?”

He crawled out of the bed, reluctant, eager. Dry mouthed and scared. “What?”

“Is this a deer tick, there’s something on my back, I feel it.”

 _Bitch. You *know*--you’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to make me…cry, you bitch._ “I can’t see anything.”

“Really? ‘Cause I felt something…”

Crack. He _heard_ his brain break. A wave of anger swept up and almost knocked him off his feet. _Stop! Stop! Stop…_

He took in a deep breath, and snapped. _You asked for it, boy._ “Let me see…oh yeah, there _is_ something there.” He touched that long brown back, “There? No…”

Slid his finger down slowly, slowly, tracing a line of bronze freckles, past the brown and onto skin so white and soft and “here, is this it?” and he twisted his finger to the right of his cleft, barely to the right and slowly--twisted it slowly, until he felt backward pressure against the fingertip sliding deeper in his cleft and he twisted his finger and slid closer and closer… “Does it itch?” he asked, and his voice broke a little. Sam shook his head, opened his mouth and some kind of noise creaked out….

In the really small bathroom, the sound of their breath was like the roar of a waterfall, and he put both his hands on Sam’s ass and pressed, dipped his head a fraction. Of. An. Inch. And heard the front door open.

He jerked away, and Sam turned around, hands over his cock. He looked relieved, needy, angry…angrier as he backed towards the door. "Oh fuck."

Sam shook his head. “It’s not my fault.”

The door swung shut behind him, and Dean was staring at himself in the mirror, alone. Pajamas, and boxers and naked skin…it was fucking winter and Sam was naked in the bed and oh, no, it wasn’t Sam’s fault and for one moment Dean thought 'I could just…jump him. Jump on him and knock him down and—and fuckin' eat my gun--what the _fuck_ am I thinking!'

God…if he held his breath really long, could he die? Fucking hell. Next time, he was going on the hunt, let Dad stay here with…Lolita. Okay, have to let that breath go. Breathe.  
And now he was panting, great, lovely.

By the time he had the guts to come out of the bathroom and walk the million miles to bed, Sam was snoring, stretched out and gone, sleeping the sleep of the innocent….

* * * * * * 

  
Maine was ass-freezing cold. Winter there was every nightmare he’d ever had. Cold. Weird. Werewolves liked it cold…

Things changed. He rode shotgun with Dad now while Sam stayed home on his own.

Maine was the first time he killed--killed something that bled, anyway.

Forgot most of it except the silver blade shoving into the thing’s furred chest--sticking first and then sliding in and all that hot, hot blood poured over his hand—still creeped out that his first thought had been, ‘wow, warm.’ His hands were always cold and then they weren’t and then, the blood cooled so fast and got thick and sticky and its head blew apart when Dad shot it and he threw up in the snow for like-- _forever_. Threw up until his fucking _toes_ hurt.

A part of him kept thinking, 'there’s a person under that fur and blood and I killed it.' Dad patted him on the back and told him he was a good soldier. He kept apologizing, and hurling and Dad kept patting him…he kept seeing ice colored wolf eyes turn dark and human and...hurt. Full of hurt….

Two thousand stairs to their apartment over a ceramics studio…each one two hundred feet high, and by the time he was in the door, he was ready to die. Dad pulled him into the shower, washed him until the tacky gluey mess was gone, blood clung to places he swore it hadn’t touched. Blood was so fucking gross and he wanted to pour bleach over everywhere it touched.

Dad wrapped him in a big towel and rubbed him from head to toe like he was five—and finally he could breathe again. “I’m sorry. Dad, I’m sorry.”

“For what? _I’m_ sorry—shoulda got the shot sooner…you were great, Dean, you were a soldier, you were brave…” over and over.

He felt such love for Dad.

And then Dad left. “Back tomorrow, okay?” He was gone and leaving him alone with Sam, still shaky. Still feeling the blood. Still wrapped in a towel….

“Are you okay?” Sam looked scared.

“Duh.” ‘Course he was okay. Obviously. ‘Cause if he wasn’t…

“Yeah. Dad wouldn’t leave. Dad couldn’t…so you’re okay.”

He was nodding and shivering and really, really fucking tired. Crawled up on the bed and lay down, pulled the pillow over his head, and Sam lay down next to him and sighed. Put his arms around him. All he could do was pretend to be asleep. Sam pushed closer, rocked himself closer and then—rocked against him. Again, again until hot breath flowed over the back of his neck, and his ear, and a small voice groaned, “I want to touch you.” Big hand roamed along the flap of the towel that was all that was saving him from going to hell, boy, it was getting harder and harder not to move back, not to press against Sammy—it was plain hard. A snicker in his ear told him that Sam had found that out too.

Sigh. Big sigh. Big honkin' sigh and a curse and a slap—“you understand WRONG, don’t you? Like, this is so fuckin’ wrong?”

“Shut up and let me make you feel better. I promise I won’t do anything—just hold you.”

“…okay.” Because, sometimes it was too hard to fight, and sometimes, any kind of close is a good close…fucking unbelievable that he could fall asleep with Sam’s cock pressed so tight against his ass he could feel his pulse. Unbelievable--but he did.

* * * * * * 

  
Next morning he sat in the big window in the living-kitchen-dining-laundry room, the gray light of a winter afternoon made him feel he was in an alien world. The gray floorboards were cold underfoot, and he kept thinking about snow--white, white snow. Sam sat across from him, perched on the arm of the beat-up couch and sipped coffee from a big ugly mug. Studied him.  
“You okay?”

“Told you last night I was. I am.”

“I mean about--”

“About what? I slept pretty hard last night. I was damn tired.”

Sam looked at him. “Yeah. Yeah. Listen—Dad was a dick for leaving you last night.” Put down his cup next to him and wandered back to the bedroom, and Dean sat in the window and drank the rest of Sam’s coffee and counted snowflakes….

* * * * * * 

  
Road Trip. Oh Gawd. Fuckin’ hell. Every time he heard the words, his gut cramped. But he grinned like he loved it—Road Trip! Fuckin’ yay! ‘Cause Dad didn’t need extra shit and Sam didn’t need to know how much not a fuckin’ adventure it was.

California was calling. At least it’d be warm.

And then…and then….there were days and days in the back seat of the car.  
Days.

Daysdaysdays.

Days.

Okay, four days but time always moved slower in hell….

The backseat got smaller as the DAYS went by and there was nowhere to go, his beat up old walkman didn’t work anymore, and walls of pillows didn’t work anymore and shoving his fingers in his ears and slamming his eyes shut didn’t work anymore.

“Dean, move _over."_

“Stop touching me.”

“ _You_ stop touching—”

“No, you stop touching—

“Oh for—shut the hell up the _both_ of you or so help me, I’ll kill you.”

Nervous laughter because it was Dad and you never knew…looked up and caught Dad in the rear view mirror staring at him. ‘You’re the oldest’ in his eyes. Which meant he had to look out for Sam and be an example and weren’t they way too fucking old for him to be baby-sitting his brother? _If you knew what your Sam was doing…trying to do…._

Zillions of miles and landmarks zipping past unvisited--they were getting to know all the rest stops intimately. They could fill an album with pics of rest stops—here’s the vending machine in New York, here’s a really nice picnic table in Illinois….

Dad drove he drove Sam drove.

Night and day flowed past one another like water and night came and Sam was leaning on his shoulder, dozing on and off. He was too tired to push him off, too tired to pretend he didn’t like it, and after a while, Dean dozed off himself.

Opened his eyes.

There was a weight in his lap. Warm and heavy. The road tossed the weight against him and back, against him and back, and he was hard. Heat on his cock. Pressure, pleasant pressure.

He closed his eyes again and sent up a prayer to…wherever, and opened his eyes. Looked down into his lap.

Looking for what he had no idea because who the hell would it be but Sam and there he was in his lap. _Can’t move now_ …and his ass was itching fierce. Of course. The slightest move and Sam’d be….god, nose to cock with him.

Maybe…maybe Sam was asleep. Maybe he’d just keep his eyes closed. And keep really, really quiet. Maybe Sam wasn’t really pressing his mouth against his zipper, and he wasn’t swelling to fill what little space was left in his jeans, and he couldn’t feel hot gusts of air leaking through the denim and onto his cock. He didn’t just squirt pre-come in his boxers because he wasn’t so excited he was on the verge of coming.

 _Fuck me_ The added strain, beyond the strain that his brother…may or may not be trying to make him come in his pants, was keeping his mouth shut in front of Dad… _Dad pull over pull over_

No matter how much you tried, there was no forcing a person to develop ESP when you wanted them to have it. Dean gave it a try anyway.

He really did. Right up until the point that Sam opened his mouth and bit down the length of his zipper. Hot moist breath, and the pinch of Sammy’s puppy teeth and he was shivering wildly. He would have paid a fortune to not be in that car right at that moment. Sam’s teeth closed over the tip of his cock hidden under the denim and cotton and he breathed out while doing it and it was—so fucking hot, his cock jumped and burned and he would have paid a fortune for Dad to not be in the car at that moment.

He couldn’t tell Sam to stop. He couldn’t open his mouth. Because he wanted to scream….

 _FUCKFUCK_ Slickhotwet shot out of his cock and filled his shorts and he imagined his hands went up to cup Sam’s head and he imagined he lifted his hips and pumped into his mouth and Sam swallowed all of him greedily, and he whipped his head back and forth and screamed Sammy, suck me, of god, oh shit your mouth is so hot…

Which would have been horribly wrong and hotter than hell, and better than reality.

In reality, he sat frozen, not moving not breathing not swallowing, feeling his cock pulse hard. Realizing Sam’s chin was jammed into his thigh and he was letting out the same kind of low, slow nearly silent breath, and he could feel the tension in Sammy’s body flow out, and he moved his hand. Kinda accidentally brushed Sam’s crotch. And got a shiver and a breath and Sam was.

He could feel Sam move under the palm he had pressed hard against his zipper, feel damp heat….

Next rest stop, he was gonna poke his eyes out. He was gonna poke his eyes out, and cut out his brain and his evil possessed cock….

Sam squeezed his leg and rubbed little circles into his thigh and oh sure, that made it all better….

The slide of light over his brother’s face as they drove in and out of darkness…all the hard angles of his changing boy's face had gone soft again, and Dean's heart burned like Sam's eyes. And for a crazy moment he wondered if there was some way that maybe this could be…not totally a bad thing. Because he loved him. He really loved Sam.

* * * * * * 

  
Street lights cast an orange glow through the windows, the big blue signs led them to a rest stop, time to stretch and move and remember that he had feet and legs and an ass and maybe they could eat…

Instead, Dad and Sam slept like the dead in the car and he was in a bathroom stall, his ass bumping against the cold metal wall, and his cock down some kid’s throat…and he could breathe hard, and moan out loud, yank his hair and tell the kid, “watch out, I’m going to fuckin’ come, it’s--”  
He shook from head to toe, and the mouth on him drew back, slickly wet and smooth all over the inside like satin, his tongue was hot and silky on his cock, his lips plush and wet and he said, “Go ahead. Come in my mouth.”

Dean had most of his tee-shirt clenched in his teeth, shaking all over and yelling into the wad of fabric—it felt so good to let go--he fucked the stranger’s mouth and called him--  
Well. There was ever only one name in his mouth…when it was like this.

He got blown in a rest stop. A strange guy blew him in a rest stop. He was giggling against the door after the guy left, maybe from shock a little. He pulled his shirt down, and pulled up his pants, he thought how different it’d been than with a girl, more…more like he’d dreamed of. He liked it.

Until he got back in the car and Sam was awake.

How was it any of Sam's business what he did and how fuckin’ sick was it that he felt—guilty? Guilty.

Really, though, if the shoe was on the other foot, how much would he have hated seeing Sam come back to him, sated and rumpled and walking that loose-hipped way you got when sex makes all your muscles loopy and warm…wished he could lean over and whisper, “I imagined it was you—I always do.”


	2. But Then

Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall. California. Washington. Idaho.

Away. Moving all the time. Moving like—fuck not even like gypsies, they were staggering in circles around the country, pointless, killing and killing and killing…Dad was looking for the Holy Grail. Or Death, or Lucifer--or fuck, maybe the perfect burger, what the fuck.

They drove through Nevada, hot…dry…kind of fugly.

Tires whirring over the road, cars flashing past them, hotdry air whistling in the open windows. Dad pointing out mountains, and Sam sitting back, arms crossed, eyes squinched... “They’re brown.”

Why couldn’t Sam even try to play the game? What the fuck would it hurt him to make Dad happy? So what if Dad had to be gone a lot and when he wasn’t gone sometimes he got…drunk. Some times. Hardly ever. Even so, Dad wasn’t ever—out of it—never that. Just sometimes a little, maybe a little, harsh. Dad didn’t mean it, he never did—it was just, he had all kinds of memories. And sometimes try as you might, you can’t sink memories. Sometimes they float back to the top.

So he did what Dad told him—he protected Sammy. If it meant some days taking him out for a coke for a few hours, or even sleeping in the back seat of the car, it was no big deal.

He explained it to Sam, as much as he could. Dad didn’t mean it; he didn’t want to be like that. It was just an accident, and it didn’t happen that much anyway. And when it did, Dad was always awfully sorry. “You know he loves you.” Easier to sell when Sam was ten…harder to sell now.

So. Sometimes they slept in the car. No sweat. ‘Course, he bitched and bitched, because no fuckin’ way would he admit to himself, or to Sam, how much he…well, he liked it. Sleeping in the car with Sam. Close to Sam.

Sitting up all night long, cause there’d long been no room for the both of them to stretch out. Sitting up side by side, Sam with his head tilted back, ridiculously long legs folded up, dropping into sleep in instants, fucker. All the time, every time, Sam was the first to sleep and he—he got to stay awake and watch him…yay. Fuckin’ yay.

Carefully sitting upright and painfully hard while Sammy drooled and snored and wrapped limbs around him, climbed him like a monkey and shoved a hand between his legs and sometimes pressed hard against him, God. T-shirts wet with sweat, skin sticking to the seats, jeans wet behind the knees and the waistband and in the crease of their hips and wherever they touched.

Mornings break the heat, cooler, comfortable, and then finally he could ease into sleep. The cooler air always made Sam drive his nose into any warm spot…neck, cheek, ear…it's enough to make a man start praying.

* * * * * * 

  
Dad was gone. The TV was off, Sam had a local newspaper glommed from somewhere, and a piece of the hotel ‘stationary’, a chewed up pencil in his hand. Brows kinked, the tip of a pointed pink tongue peeked out every once in a while to swipe along his upper lip.

The whole bed was full of Sam. His head was against the wall, his long brown legs hung over the side of the bed; his bare feet were on the floor, scuffing up the cheap thin mat masquerading as a rug.

God damn, he realized, Sammy grew. He grew so much. What puppy fat he'd had was gone, and thin bones had been overlaid with muscle. He was harder than when they were Jersey. He3'd gotten…hard. Dean pictured that muscle under his hand, over him, pushing into him…

The worst part? Dean knew, he knew if he said the word, he could have Sam. Have it. All. All he had to say was "Sam, yes."

“Dean?”

"Wasn’t looking at you-- I mean—what? Ye--” He swallowed hard and began again. “Yes?”

“You think….Dad will let us stay put for a while?”

“Man, I can’t predict what Dad will want to do.”

Just that quick, Sam shut down and to keep him from going farther away, Dean said, “Let me talk to him, okay?”

Sam nodded.

He argued with Dad. Dad wanted to keep moving so he spun it like a motherfucker--a base, for a while, they needed a base—a safe place to plan and organize hunting trips. They were all tired of wandering across the country, right? They needed a break. “Just a few months…maybe…a year. Just a year, Dad. Catch our breaths. Please.”

He was wiped out after, wrung dry. He hated begging.  
After, lying in bed, trying to sleep and pretending the air conditioner hacking its guts out in the window was at least cooling some air as it died, He felt the mattress sink. The sheets were so lousy that when Sam slid across them, they sound like paper crumbling.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Sam, get back in your bed. Please.”

“Are you sure? I can stay…” Hot breath, so close it felt damp. So close Sam’s lips so close they teased the shell of his ear.

 _no fuck no, of course I’m not sure—I wanna fuck you touch you all over lick every inch of you_ “I’m sure. Go.”

That night, he'd counted sixty fucking tiles on the ceiling right over his bed. Maybe…they were made of asbestos, and maybe if he was really fucking lucky, they’ll flake all over him and fill his lungs and he’ll be dead by morning….holding his breath hadn’t helped….

 

* * * * * * 

NOW....  
Floating in a pool full of lukewarm chlorine, letting the sun spin pinwheels in red and orange on the inside of his eyelids….keeping his thoughts trained on float, float…nothing but that, and ignore the feel of water lapping at his ribs like a little tongue…

Drifting and thinking… floating out here was a treat. Sam was long old enough to take care of himself…okay, so he was listening with every cell trained on their room, and wishing he had that x-ray vision so he could make sure Sam was okay, and maybe now he should get out of the water…

“Dean.”

*Getting out now.*

“What?” He strokes for the pool side, to Sam sitting at the edge now. Waiting for him.

“Nothing. Just wondering when you were coming in. I’m hungry.” Sam makes a face, and kicks the water—

“You can’t feed yourself?” Sam makes a noise, disgust, exasperation, he laughs and drops his chin on Sam’s knee and lets go, floating in the water—the only thing holding him up is his brother’s knee, the only thing keeping him from floating away…sinking…

“I can, but I like it better when you do it.”

“Sammy, Sammy—you know I can’t follow you around your whole life, cooking and cleaning for you…besides, being a bitch is your role.” Supposed to be a joke, but Sam looks away again with that odd little twist to his mouth. So fucking bitter, so…so hard…it’s not fucking fair, but that’s a thought he shoves down deep—along with all the other fucking baggage, shit….“Okay, what the fuck do you want for lunch, Sammy?”

“Nothing, never mind, I’m not hungry…”

“Hey…hey…” he risks touching Sam’s knee with his hand too, the taut brown skin is hot, sun hot, and it feels like it’s burning under his cold fingers. “You know I’m kidding right? Seriously, what do you want and don’t say PB and J, so help me…”

The ghost echo of lust makes his cock move…Sammy laughs, and splashes him, pushes him off and down into the water. He pops up to the surface again a few feet away, grinning, but Sam’s already jumped to his feet, running barefoot across the hot concrete.

Another motel, not much different from all the others, except it was in another county, another state. This new place has got a lawn in the back of it, drying into straw in the summer heat and, sitting on that, a couple of lawn chairs that might have been new when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

They were sitting in the antique lawn chairs, eating grilled cheese sandwiches made on the hotplate, and just bullshitting…

“You know what I like? I like swimming.”

“Yeah, I think we all kinda noticed that. Anytime we’re near anything deeper than a puddle you wanna jump in.” He grins as he says it and Sam grins back, says, “Yeah, I wonder why that is?”

“Duh. Summer hot, water cool. Sammy, Sammy--always looking for something more. Sometimes Sam, a cigar is just a cigar.”

“…what?”

“Eh. I heard it somewhere—but I think it means, sometimes something just…is. You like to swim, ‘cause it’s fun.

Sam laughs. “Well, yeah, there’s that…but there’s more too. Floating, relaxed…it’s like flying kind of? I close my eyes and pretend I’m in the clouds.” Sam’s smiling, so he doesn’t have the heart to laugh at him--besides, he gets it. Completely gets what Sam’s trying to say. Maybe Sam doesn’t know himself but--getting away. It’s all about getting away.

What if Sam decides he needs to get _away_ away?

What if he leaves?

Leaves him?

Sam turns to him and says, “I love you.”

Dean chokes a bit on a lump of sandwich, swallows hard. “Um. Yeah, me too. Besides we have to, we’re family. It’s the law.” Grins.

Sam’s looking serious. “No,” he says and his voice drops, it’s really deep. Like a man’s. Which, Sam is. A man. Or right there, right at the point you drop over and you’re not a boy anymore… "No, I mean, I *love* you.”

 _Fuck. Don’t ruin it, Sam, why do you have to ruin it, we were having a nice time, don’t ruin it…._

“All we have is each other, don’t you see? Who else could understand--know what we do? Have what we have?”

He sits up, grabs Sam’s hand and —shit, Sam's eyes light up like a fucking Christmas tree… “Sammy—Sam—we don’t have anything. You’re my brother—that’s it. I love you man, no doubt I do. I love Dad, I love you. That’s it. We’re family. We kinda have to love each other—no choice.”

Sam looks like he just got smacked. Shit.

“You get it?” _please get it…._ It was like kicking puppies. No, it was like fucking stomping on their heads…no light in Sam’s eyes now. Something else.

“Liar. You’re a liar Dean.”

“No, kid, I’m telling the truth.” _That you need to hear._ “Believe it.” _Please…_ “Understand?”

He expects Sam to yank his hand away, to yell—throw a tantrum. But he doesn’t. Sits there. Looks at him and nods, once.

That’s it. It’s over. Sun’s almost down and it’s cold and…

Fuck.

* * * * * * 

  
Idaho. Oregon. All the way back to California before he makes Dad remember his promise--a base—a real place to live in—for Sammy.

That’s how they end up in a seen-better-days tract house, in a neighborhood whose backyards bordered hell. Last on the left, in the end of a cul de sac. Twenty-four/seven, the sound of truck tires barreling past on the interstate sang out to them, sometimes broken by the sound of metal impacting, shrieking sirens. After a while, hell, it was as good as a lullaby.

At night, the light from inside shone through gaps in the walls. If you squinted, it was kind of like Christmas lights all year long--real festive. There was a tree dying in the front yard, and in the back, an ancient swing set made of red paint and rust. When the wind got busy blowing, the swings moved, creaked and screamed like extras in a horror movie.

Didn’t bother them one bit—been there, done that. Things screaming in the night just meant lock and load.

There were other houses around them, close enough to open a window and touch the place next door--but they were alone. They liked it like that.

So…Sammy’s into his books, wrapped up in school like it’s fun or something. Dad’s kind of hanging around, cleaning guns, making notes, he’s got this big ass logbook, and he’s writing a lot.

Stuff starts accumulating. Dad brings home a table, a bookcase. He brings home a rug. Sam brings home teenage attitude.

The place starts to take on some personality. It’s becoming their place. Kind of like home….

It’s not long before Dad’s gone off again—Missouri, or Michigan or something, and not a fucking moment too soon.

Freedom!

Dean brings home a girl first night, kicks the newspapers under the couch, and smears a rag through the sticky rings on the coffee table.   
Sam’s in the kitchen washing dishes, and he's on the couch with the chick, hands down her pants and tongue down her throat. Distantly, he hears a door slam. "Be right back.” Slithers off the couch and stalks back to their bedroom, ready to throw Sam out of the room-- hey, he’s gonna need the damn bed, after all…

Hunh. Sam’s in Dad’s room.

Good. Well…good. He doesn’t have to say anything. Good. Great. He tries the door and it’s locked. Fine. And good.

He fucks this girl so hard, the headboard slams into the wall, chipping cheap paint and plaster right off the motherfucker—slam slam slam and she’s screaming his name. Fuck yeah.  
Every night Dad’s gone, a different girl is in the house and Sam sleeps in Dad’s bed.

* * * * * * 

  
“So, I’m getting a tutor for…” Sam stops and laughs. Kind of rolls his eyes. “Never mind. Anyway, they’ll be over tonight.” He drops his spoon into the bowl of cereal, and sighs. “What are you doing tonight. Dean?”

He smirks, chews his toast open mouthed. “You mean who, don’t you?”

Sam makes him clean up, ‘cause he’s a goddamn girl.

He’s fishing underwear out of the couch…silk, with some kind of…monkey printed on them or something. He watches Sam sweep the floor, the broom sweeps around the floor, under the chair and sweeps out socks and a book and a pizza crust and…Sam’s back is a long straight exclamation point of outrage…he looks down at the dust and junk and there’s a…oh. A condom.  
Right. Forgot about that…

“Sorry.”

“For what? That you’re a pig?”

That hurt… “Hey! Sex god, dude…”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah? Fuck you! Why are we cleaning like you’ve got a date? It’s just a fuckin'…tutor." _You’ve got a date. Of course you’ve got a date. Why not?_ It feels like shit. “Yeah, well, I hope she likes peanut butter and crackers because I’m not cooking.”

"Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Ends up, he doesn’t even see this tutor, he’s gone with Dad—there’s a favor Dad owes, and they’re off to do an exorcism. He fucking *hates* them. Sammy’s better with the Latin, but Dad needs muscle too…

Hate hate hate exorcisms, hates seeing the demon under human skin, hates seeing the other lurking in the human face. The eyes…eyes are the worst. If eyes are the window to the soul…

This one was every bit as horrible as he figured it would be. The kid—reminded him of Sam. It was bad, but it was over and everyone was alive, had all their fingers and toes, so it was a freaking success… he was going to believe the kid when he said he couldn’t remember anything.

No matter what the boy’s eyes said….

And they’re home sweet home--smell of roasting pork in the air, dogs are barking up and down the block, airplanes are droning overhead. Hot dry wind is whipping up the dust in the front yard, and in the distance he can hear some woman screaming curses.

God damn, it’s good to be home again.

He’s grinning, getting ready to yell out Sam’s name and the door opens.

And there’s the Tutor. There he is.

“Dean.” Dad’s voice cuts through his shock like a knife. Damn it. He jogs back to get the bags, and Sam comes down the walk and holds the gate open for them, lets the tutor escape, books bumping on his hip as the kid makes a beeline for the street.

Dad walks past Sam, brisk, straight—he’s showing no sign of the exhaustion that’s gotta be eating him up, the bone creaking tired that’s painting dark smudges under his eyes—he just smiles at Sam like he’s happy to see him. “Sammy.” Slaps his shoulder and heads into the house, but Sam’s not looking at Dad anymore, he’s looking his way….

And still holding the gate.

He squeezes past and looks Sam in the eyes. “Your t-shirt...is…on backward.”

Sam doesn’t even blush, bastard, fucking…looks back all serious and says, “Are you jealous? I’m trying to make you jealous.”

 _What the fuck?_ “Dude…” Dean just cracks and says, "Yeah. Happy?”

Sam nods, still serious. “Yes. Good.”

He’s still standing on the sidewalk as Sam walks back into the house. “The fuck?” he asks the dog slinking past, asks the clouds. “What the *fuck* just happened here?" Can somebody explain how his _fucked_ up life just got worse?”

* * * * * * 

  
He’s in one bed, and Sam’s in the other. He can’t keep his eyes off Sammy, because really? He’s starting to scare the shit out of him. He watches him through narrowed eyes; faking sleep himself until Sam snores, and he knows for sure he’s asleep and gratefully turns to the wall. He’ll never sleep. Never. That kid’s eyes are there every time he shuts his own.

Feels a dip in the bed…oh God…not again…

He feels something warm, a silky weight glide along the inside of his thigh, and he groans. Slides back, pushes, and there’s a wet trail now, nudges against him, slides between his thighs, sliding in a thicker pool of wet. And he has to stop this right now, now. Sam’s cock under his balls, past them, back, Sam’s shoving himself between his thighs and all he can do is tighten until he’s stiff all over—shuddering every time that hot smooth head rubs against him. He’s shaking, stuttering out, “Dad…Dad could come in.”

“So? He knows we sleep in the same bed some time…” Sam sighs, warm and damp against the back of his neck. “I want to be in you.”

*No!* But he quakes...bites his lip. Muscles seize up, Sam’s groaning, and the sound of it is so hot and he has to come. He feels Sam’s fingers drill into the thin skin stretched tight over his hips, feels hot wet spread over his back, can feel Sam’s cock jump as he comes all over him…

Wakes up holding in a groan, alone, the newspaper rough sheets scraping against the head of his cock and it hurts.


	3. So...lately

* * * * * * 

  
The tutor comes out of the house and looks over to where he’s sitting in the car, doors open and the old head station Dad listens to banging on the radio. He looks over at Our Tutor, and raises his eyebrows. The kid looks rumpled and crumbled and he wonders just how much Sammy’s learning here. What he’s learning.

The kid heads for the gate, and he asks, “Hey, need a ride?” and something in the back of his mind kind of kicks in…not a real good thing, not a real bad thing…yet.

“Sure—thanks.”

Off they go, and he feels…um…chatty. Yeah. Kind of talkative. “So, Sam’s in your class? Yeah? How’s he doing? Good? Good. Wanna get something? Coke or something? You have to go home right now?” That gets a slow smile and a blush…yeah.

So they end up in the parking lot behind the playground and by this time it’s dark and no one sane is out there in the night….  
They're sitting in the back of the car and Dean stops to think that if the car could talk—he’d be dead meat.

The kid’s on his lap, and he’s kissing him, talking to the kid between hungry kisses… “I won’t tell…you his boyfriend? No? Really? Why not…” He kisses him, searches out every little spot in his mouth for Sam, under the kid's tongue, his lips, inside his cheeks; he chases any possible trace of Sam, warm and a little salty—sucks his tongue and thinks about sucking Sam's cock. “He touch you? Where? Here?”

He slides down on the little strip of floor with his ass against the back of the front seat, one foot jammed against the floor board. It's fucking uncomfortable but doesn't stop him from unzipping the kid, yanking his jeans down. “Turn around, hold the seat back…you liked it? When he fucked you?” Asks again, with his lips grazing flesh, a kiss…"was he good, did he make you come like that, did he…?" _did he say my name?_

Lips press against the hot hole exposed, hot, wet, red…when his tongue touches him, the kid gasps and jerks away, but he holds him—won’t let him move…"He fuck you hard?" Dean works his tongue in, sloppy and wet, tries to shove as much spit into that little hole as he can, shudders painfully hard because it's still wet, just a little loose….  
He’s not even thinking of anything but Sam now—this kid is nobody, just where Sam had been, what Sam left and fuck--he wants to be there—he wants Sam. Wants to feel what this kid felt.

He really wants to be fucked by Sam and he really wants to _not_ be fucked by him and it’s kind of too much, and he starts to cry, but thank God, quietly. Still, the tears keep filling his eyes and running down his cheeks and he feels like an idiot. A crucified idiot.

He fucks this kid, fucks him carefully, like he’s made of glass…because really? He wants so bad to hurt him.

Afterward, when the tutor is gone and he’s back home again, he parks in the drive and lays on the back seat, face pressed to the vinyl. He smells plastic and dust. Upholstery. Old carpet and hotdogs and the faintest whiff of smoke, vomit…and sex.

* * * * * * 

  
It’s Family Night. The Winchester version anyway.

The diner's small, and kind of dark. Its cleanliness is suspect but it’s cheap and the plates are piled high with food, and more importantly, the food’s damn good.

Dean’s working his way through a mountain of buttery fries, bites a finger by accident ‘cause Sam’s staring at him. Staring so hard that he begins to sweat, just a little tickle between his shoulder blades but still….

The spot Sam’s staring at like a dog at a bone--the base of his throat--itches. Hell, it burns. Sam’s steady staring and he licks ketchup off his fingers; and for one weird moment, he can feel Sam’s tongue, hot and wet right there, in the hollow of his throat.

There are spots of bright red ketchup in the corners of Sam’s mouth. Dad is talking about—oh God, something…he’s trying to listen, he really is trying fuckin’ hard to pay attention to whatever the hell it is Dad’s saying...but Sam’s tongue is worming its way in the creases of his lip, searching for ketchup--licking and—licking.

 _Bastard._ Dean reaches under the table and adjusts himself. Sam’s looking at him, and smiles--a sweet kind of ‘I’m happy, aren’t you happy?’ smile. “It’s a nice night, hunh? Weather’s nice,” Sam says.

Dad says, “Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Good sleeping weather.”

And Sam smiles at him and says, “Yeah, good sleeping…” only it’s more like a—like he _breathes_ it instead of saying it.

Dad smiles and chews his burger, and Sam says, “We should sleep outside tonight, Dean,” smiles again and that tickle of sweat between his shoulder blades grows…he can feel the fucking thing dripping down his back….

“Yeah, maybe…” and his voice is a stranger’s, dry and faint.

Sam drops ketchup on his t-shirt. Frowns, and tries to lift it off with the side of his finger—sucks the smear of red from it, his tongue chases it right down to the web between his fingers. He swears Sam plays with it for a moment. Swears Sam’s eyes flutter shut for a moment.

He watches and his cock jumps. Is he…does Sam really not get what it’s doing to him? He feels his eyes fill and wants to bite his own hand. _Bitch. Crybaby. Pussy._ He's all bad things and his brother is—not.

Sam smiles again, a gentle curve that sweeps the ends of his mouth into a bow, and slants his eyes. They glitter like a cat’s but his expression is sweet. No…kind. That's what it is, kind.

 

Dad gets up to get something from the car—he says. They both know Dad’s going out to the parking lot to cop a smoke. Dean waits until Dad’s cleared the diner doors before turning to Sam and hissing, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Just--stop it Sam!”

“I don’t know what you’re doing, Dean, but I’m eating. Eat _your_ food and shut up, will you?”

“You--You’re not doing it on purpose?” He’s feeling a little stupid now—kind of like a pervert. A blind perv.

Sam snorts. “What do you think is happening here, Dean?”

“I don’t know…” He looks out the window, sees a little orange flame flare in the dark, sees his own face in the glass—Sam’s—sees Sam staring again.

Feels his foot. Feels that foot encased in ratty Converses nudge his ankle--careful, barely a real touch—God help him, the kid was going to kill him dead. "Sam—"

“What?”

“Gotta go—be right back.” He jumps up and dashes to the bathroom. Closes the door carefully behind him, locks it—that’s important, the locking part. He opens his pants, bites his lip. Pulls down his boxers, and takes his cock in hand. Comes without a sound, tosses the gummy tissues into the bowl and flushes. Calmly. Waits until the flush leaves his face and he’s breathing normally again. Or close to it….

His brother is a fucking evil bastard.

Dad’s back at the table by the tine Dean comes out, smelling faintly of smoke, directs a little shamefaced grin at him. What can he do? He grins back at Dad. _Secrets Dad, we all have them…God, do we ever._

Sam smiles up at him, cat-eyed and angelic at once. “You okay?” And sucks at the straw standing up in his coke, the pointed tip of his tongue searching for the hole in the end of the straw….

“Yes! I mean…yes.”

Dad looks at him with some surprise, and Sam looks at him like…like the Earth just opened up and puked out a million dollars and Pamela Anderson. Tom Cruise. Whatever.

Dad shrugs. He’s given up trying to understand the bizarro language he claims they have.

Dean’s not totally sure what he’s agreed to. He’s scared shitless. What happens next? Is he supposed to do something, or just lay back and think of puppies and ice-cream? What does Sam want? What does he _want?_  
Him. Sam wants him. And God, he wants Sam. Sam’s hand on him, Sam’s mouth on him—he’s wanted it forever, so much sometimes it makes him sick. It's made him cry, it's made him almost hurt himself jerking off. Coming, driving fingers into his eyes when he did. And God, don’t ever fucking enjoy it. Because that would make him too sick to be allowed to…breathe.

But the thing is, the real truth? He wants to be—fucked raw, broken, ripped to pieces; he wants whatever it'll take to keep Sam here with him forever. And if Sam doesn’t want that, what’s left in the world?

How does he live?

* * * * 

  
"When? "

Now that Sam’s got him locked up and panting for it, he’s…it’s…slow. Suddenly all that desperation, that anger, raw want he used to see in Sam’s eyes--it’s all gone. Now it’s all about sweet _bland_ looks, and little drifting touches. Smiles, all sweet and puppy faced, so…fucking innocent. It makes him think maybe he’s a little…maybe he wanted too much?

It’s…horrible. Like torture. It’s cruel, and it hurts but Sam doesn’t seem to get it. He just keeps saying, “Wait ‘til Dad’s gone, wait…”

Wait is making him NUTS. God—Sam must be made of iron or something.

Sammy’s making him crazy—crazier. ‘Wait’ is going to fucking _kill_ him.

So, waiting, and waiting. When Dad finally tells him he’s taking off for a few weeks, he has to bite his lip hard to keep from *screaming*

“Be gone for a while. You boys take care of each other, hear?” Dad gives him the manly pat-rub-slap on his shoulder. He gets this brief flash of wanting to salute but has enough damn sense not to—bad enough that he’s grinning like an idiot. “Be careful Dad—have a good time.” _FUCK_ “I mean—you know what I mean.”   
_FUCKME_ “Um. Yeah.”

Dad gives him an odd look before he leaves.

From the edge of the driveway, he watches the truck leave. Looks back to the house and Sam’s watching too…the taillights flash red and they’re gone and God, he wants Dad to come back right now.

See? Crazy.

* * * * * * 

  
Dad’s been gone for two days.

He’s making dinner—mac and cheese and hamburger, and because he’s been watching the cooking channel, slices up a tomato on the side. Festive, and also healthy. He pours a glass of milk for both of them, and calls Sam to dinner.  
Calls. Calls again.

“Yo, Sammy, I didn’t slave over a hot stove for nothing. Get your narrow butt out here.”

“…Dean.”  
“What?” He’s moving toward the bedroom already, trying to keep the scowl in place, ready to yell.

The room’s dark, because the shades are drawn, the curtains pulled. Sam’s sitting with his back to the headboard, wearing boxers.

Blue boxers, and the sheets are blue and it's a weird thing to notice, that the sheets are the same blue as Sam's boxers. Sam’s making a little come-here motion with his hand.

There’s no way he can move. He’s not ready. Not ready for this. This is bad.   
If he steps over the line, it’s not ever going to be the same. He might've said yes, but there's no fucking way he can ever be ready for this.

He jerks all over like he's touched a live wire, and his legs takes over…one step…another. Another. Sam looks so patient. Waiting. How did he get to be so good at waiting?

Another, and Dean's throat is closing, and sweat prickles his lip…his eyes flutter. It’s painful to take another step, but he does and suddenly, his knees are hitting the bed.

“Okay…” The voice doesn’t sound like his. It’s dry and dusty like--like a mummy’s voice. If mummy's could talk. Wonder if mummies really can …

“Dean? Are you here with me?”

 _am now_ “…Uh-hunh…”

He drops to the bed because his knees give way, and Sam pulls him close--kind of drags him really. Sam manhandles him to where he where he wants, makes Dean wrap his arms around his skinny boxer covered waist. Stops Dean when he goes to pull his shirt over his head.

“No, let me do it.” Sam unbuttons each fucking button on his shirt like it’s a fucking test. Slow and careful, and pulls the shirt open even slower. Fingertips slide over his nipples—they’re tingling and stiff before Sam even gets there. He jumps when the cool pads of Sam's fingers graze them.

He’s got his eyes closed. His hands are fisted, and he’s got them pressed against his belly. It’s stupid—like he’s trying to protect himself or something. Sam snorts quietly, "Dude, come on…” manages to pull one of his hands away. He’s surprised how slowly, gently, he does it.   
Sam whispers in his ear, “Don’t you want to touch me?” and suddenly his hand is pressed over the incredibly hot, hard cock straining up in Sam’s boxers.

It’s like his fingers grip by instinct, squeezing, wrapping best they can with all that material in the way. They both groan, they both flex, him against his leg and Sam in his hand--he keeps his eyes closed because if he looked, he’d probably chicken out, or—or faint, or—come right away, and at the moment, any of those seem like terrible things to happen….

Sam’s mouth opens against his ear, and he says very carefully, “Feel that? That’s yours, for you…I want to touch you too.” It doesn't even matter that what Sam says is kinda corny, like bad soft core porn, because there’s a wet mouth dragging down his neck, burning across his chest, over his nipples, teeth nip and pinch—tongue, scrubbing, soothing--he’s so hard, it hurts. "Fuck, Sam, what are you _doing_ to me—"  
He feels the button on his jeans being worked open, and the zipper being teased down, he feels Sam’s touch, warm, rough fingertips rubbing his belly, catching in his hair. Stopping just at the base of his cock and fuck, he _knew_ Sam would be a horrible fucking tease in bed too….

Warm breath leaks out of him, he can’t stop sighing…it’s just like being in a dream, the kind where he has no control--he’s just laying back like a bitch and taking it, letting Sam call the shots, letting him be in charge…never ever thought Sam being the one in control would be so fuckin’ hot. It’s—it’s incredible. He feels all loopy and his muscles unlock, melt like hot taffy. Sam moves him like a doll, strips him, positions him, touches him where he wants to, how he wants to and it’s all good…all so fucking good….

Sam’s sucking a trail from his breastbone to his cock. His cock is jumping with every tiny nibbling kiss laid on it. His eyes fly open when Sam takes him in hand, holds his cock so the head fills his palm…then traces over the tip with the index finger of his free hand. That feels—so damn good—he opens his mouth to beg for more and Sam swirls precome around and very deliberately licks his finger clean, eyes locked on his. Sam’s tasting him—shit--his cock is jumping up and begging, and he’s dizzy, feels like he’s falling into Sam’s eyes.

“Should I—should I put it in my mouth?” Sam asks, so sweetly tentative, so at odds with the seducer he’s been, that Dean wonders if it’s part of the game—and he doesn’t even care. "Don't know…let me think about that…fuck yeah."

Sam snickers a little breathlessly…"Okay…"when Sam does just that, it makes him cry out quietly. He turns his face to the pillow and gives up. Gives in body and soul.

This is it. The beginning of a dream, finally come true…the moment he’s wanted, dreaded, fantasized about and now that it’s happening he can admit it—he’s built it up in his mind into something so earth shattering, incredible, amazing and perfect, that real life can’t begin to compare to the fantasy he’s made—and it doesn't

It’s so much _more._ It’s fucking unbelievable. It’s so incredible he wants to scream with how perfect it is--he makes Sam stop, pushes him away. “If you don’t stop now, I’ll come in your mouth.” Just saying that makes his hips come off the bed, makes his cock jump spit precome and Sam jerks in surprise. Dean's cock slips out of his slick, wet mouth, a translucent web of prelube and spit connecting them….

Sam crawls up his body and when their cocks touch and drag against each other, he bucks and yells, and they both quiver with smothered snorts of laughter.

It’s the laughing together that does it—suddenly it’s like all the walls topple and there’s nothing between them now, except skin. They roll against each other, they’re licking and sucking and biting anything that gets in the way, and laughing…telling each other how wonderful and beautiful, how hot, how hard, so…

Miraculous.

Miracle, that's what he wants to call it.

So, Dean's falling but before he falls completely, there’s this one moment—he’s got this one moment in which time freezes, and he sees himself sitting on the front step with his brother, ruffling his hair, explaining that this—this sex stuff was private stuff, and a big old door should be kept between them on that, and that all this weird stuff he was feeling was natural and normal, but just raging teen hormones and they were just stuck together too often, don’t worry, it's no big deal and he’d get over it….

But that’s not happening in this universe… “Sam, Sam….”

“Dean…” Sam lifts his legs. “Dean.” Drops them over his shoulders. “Dean.” He’s pushing in, and it hurts…it feels so good. And hurts, and feels good, and his head whips back and forth...it’s like being on fire from the inside, and the gritty burn begins to ease until it's like…velvet , smooth as cream, hot and there’s this—jolt—this electric explosion.   
No one else is home so it’s okay to scream….

Sam is hanging over him, and he looks stunned. His mouth is round, perfectly o shaped, and all Dean can think is _right there, my cock was right there, on his tongue._  
Sam’s eyes are wide and black and suddenly, they flood with tears, his mouth widens, he grits his teeth and throws his head back. Sam groans faster and faster until he’s screaming—but low, so low and harsh, it’s gotta hurt.

His brother’s fucking him. His brother’s cock his hands his mouth his spit his sweat…his come….

He knows when Sam’s come inside him, feels his own spilling between them, bellies wet with sweat and come sliding against each other panting, ribs swelling and flattening…it’s over.

Opens his eyes and feels like he’s dropped a million miles, like he’s fallen into a dream of heaven, like he’s king of the world…can’t help laughing at how beat up he feels, and it feels so fucking—“Awesome.”

Sam snickers against his shoulder, and Dean sticks a hand between their heaving bellies and pulls it out, curious…in awe. Pearly fluid webs his fingers, clings before reluctantly dripping down his palm…it’s him, and his brother, together, mixed up, combined…he licks his palm and Sam moans, tightens the arms around his neck and he’s moaning in his ear, “I love you, Dean, I love you, never…never…”

And he says back, “I’ll never leave you either, promise.” He’s happy, for once, really just…happy. Alive. Content. Having sex with someone you love is. Fucking. Amazing. He’s so fucking happy.

They fuck some more, they rest, they eat, they fuck some more. The room is thick with the smell of sweat and come, thick with the smell of them, their heat…they shower, and fuck in the shower, and it’s the best motherfucking use of water, ever.

Sometime around the next afternoon, he wakes up, with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips. Shit. It was just that simple. Sam was right—nothing’s changed and there’s just this extra thing, this incredible extra thing--they have another way to say I love you and it’s fucking incredible and the world is still outside the window. The sun still came up, the birds are still singing, fuckin’ kids are still outside screaming their brains out….there’s no flaming pit opening under the bed, no lightning strikes.

His ass feels like it got sandpapered—it’s sore as hell and he moves just because he wants to feel it hurt and he can’t stop grinning.

Sam’s in the shower, so he kicks the sheets off and strokes himself until he’s hard again and lays back, smirking, waiting.

Sam’s standing in the doorway, head down, toweling his hair.

“Hey…”

“Hey.” His head’s down, and his eyes, they glance over and slide away.

It doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to tell what’s going on here, and he knows Sam like no one else in the world. His gut is already freezing but he smiles. “Come here, Sam. Lay down with me.”

Nods, head still down, eyes still dancing away but he drops the towel and he’s right there, spread over the sheets and on him. He makes Sam look at him, trying to keep the grip on his chin gentle…and he sees it, deep inh is eyes. He can see it, and it’s not fair, because he didn’t do it. He would never have done it…he didn’t ask for it, Sam did, and now Sam’s got this look—looking at him like he’s Sam’s Terrible Horrible Mistake…

 _nononopleaseno_ “Hey, you okay?” _please don’t_ “You all right, Sam?”

“Oh, yeah, better than all right—I’m great.” Sam closes his eyes and wraps himself around his neck and legs. The fuzz that’s been making Sam’s chin look dirty scrapes along his cheek.

“You need a shave,” Sam says and he _sounds_ okay…

Dean says, “Yeah, you too…” Maybe he misread—maybe _he's_ the one freaking, not Sam…reading something into nothing….

“You know I love you right?”

“Yeah, ‘course. I love you too. Sam?”  
“Uhmm?”

“I _really_ love you. I mean, with everything, y’know?”

“’Course I do. Me too, Dean.”

He heaves a sigh. “Yeah. I know that.”

* * * * * * 

  
The difference between wanting something and having it can be incredible, like jumping the Snake River Canyon--and making it. Like hitting the lottery all by yourself. Like being dropped into a nest of vampires and coming out on top, alive and breathing and feeling fucking invincible. King of the damn world.

There are _no_ motherfucking words to describe getting it all and losing for getting it.

There’s no way to describe what it’s like to find out what you thought was yours was a dream or a lie or a mistake…to find out that he’s someone’s mistake. He has to spend a lot of energy pushing everything away, under, keeping away from Sam. Not touching, not looking. He’s got to do this so he can breathe, keep on moving. Because when he doesn't Sam is there again, like someone ripping at a half healed scab—pulling him back into the pit they dug.

Like it's not killing him. Like it's not killing the both of them.

The wanting is awful, now that his body knows. It fills his gut and his bones and pushes everything else out. It's too big to be contained. It flips, turns in on itself grows and grows until it's almost…good. It fills him up like nothing did, except Sam….

He wonders--how the fuck did it get like this? How did it get so…sad? Bad, he expected—anger, he could have accepted, even hatred he could have dealt with but this lingering sadness...he has these brief moments in which he wishes he were dead, he wishes he hadn’t said yes.

Mostly though, in those rare moments he thinks about all this shit honestly--even knee deep in pain and self pity, he’s gotta admit--kind of glad he did what he did. Because if he’d said no, he’d have spent the rest of his life wondering, and pretty much, he’d rather have the pain and the knowing than not.

Does that make him an idiot, he wonders, or a masochist? Or just a seriously pathetic fucking loser?

* * * * * * 

  
Dad’s in the middle of bad times, there have been a few too many hunts gone wrong lately, a little more booze to kill the pain there aren’t any doctors for, so he’s on edge more than usual, and more than fucked up when Sam drops his bomb…he has to get between the two of them to keep them from kicking the crap out of each other—

What a shit-storm…he's holding Dad back and yelling for Sam to fucking leave already, get out, go…they’ve all known he was leaving for weeks, but until he’s in the doorway, with a beat up duffle bag crammed with his stuff--so fucking pitifully small, that bag…until that moment, no one believed it, not even Sam, from the stunned look on his face.

A trickle of words turn to a waterfall of words, and anger turns to rage and betrayal and it’s just about the worst fuckin’ night he’s had that doesn’t involve salt, or silver or holy water….

It’s pretty fucking bad—so much so that when Sam slams the door behind himself, it’s a relief. For all of about five minutes.

After that, he spends days learning how to breathe again. He wonders desperately who he is without Sam, what his purpose is. It takes him weeks to get strong enough to call him, to actually hear his voice…after he realizes just how much pain it causes Sam to talk to him, he works even harder to get the strength to stop. It’s all he can give Sam….

Life goes on, and after a while, he realizes that it's not just Sam he's responsible for. He lives for Dad, does what he can…moves with him, runs his errands, lives the same life Dad lives. Tries to be as much like Dad as he can, because he seems to have found some way to live with all this shit.

What the fuck--it's a living, right?

* * * * * * 

  
Lately, He dreams--a lot--real vivid dreams, full of touch and smell and even taste…dreams of boxers, of plaid pajama bottoms, twisted around long sleep heavy legs. He dreams of peanut butter and chlorine, kisses sweet and wet, desperate stolen touches and he dreams that Sam is fucking him, slowly, slowly, so slowly it makes him cry and he wakes up, wet faced and glued to his pillow….

* * * * * * 

  
Dad's gone.

Has been gone for weeks and Dean's alone and that—that's something he can't do. He has no idea where his dad can be…but he knows where Sammy is, and like it or not, he needs help.   
He needs his brother….

Sammy… _Sam_ owes him this one thing. One thing and then he'll let him go again. One little favor, for all the favors he's done Sam. A few days out of his life, against the lifetime that's he dedicated to his brother, how can that hurt? One favor and he'd let him go again…he knows he can do that….

It's time to go get him back.

5-25-2007


End file.
